


Atlas

by neontiger55



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Season 2 spoilers, Season 3 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neontiger55/pseuds/neontiger55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU tag to 3x11 'Checkmate.'</p><p>Peter has killed too, Neal knows. Though, the only time he has witnessed Peter take a life, it was for him, the clanging of a weather buoy in the distance and the scent of salt hanging in the air.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atlas

 

 

It was a reoccurring dream he’d had since he was a child.  
  
In a room, at night, he lies awake listening to the rain outside as it falls against the window. Even though his eyes are always closed, he knows the room is dark, but not pitch black, a watery light bleeding in through the vast windows casting the scene in shades of blue and grey. There are houseplants everywhere, the only other objects in the room aside from the bed, green and limp, like they have been heavily over watered by a careless hand. As he drifts off to sleep, he realises the sound of the rain has become sharper and more distinct, no longer muted by the panes of glass. In his dream, he opens his eyes to find the windows open, a dark figure standing inside the room.  
  
Neal always woke at that moment, but slowly, the feeling of being watched, of being _found_ , lingering for some time in the periphery of his mind, the same way shadows gradually stretch and fade in the sun.  
  
Tonight though, the dream didn't release him slowly. Didn't release him at all, in fact. He could feel the presence of another person in the room long before he reached complete consciousness. Staying perfectly still, Neal listened for the familiar patter of the rain, but all he could hear was the pulse in his ears and the quiet sound of someone's breathing. Opening his eyes and blinking against the darkness, Neal could see that it was Peter standing there, a strange, wistful expression on his face. Awareness flooded through Neal then, like a ripple of electricity, and he pulled himself up from where he had been slumped on Peter’s couch. Peter was holding something in his hand, but in the fading light, Neal couldn't tell what it was.  
  
“I was gonna wake you, but I wasn’t sure – ” Peter said, uncertainly, looking at Neal like he was a painting that was simultaneously forming and fracturing in front of him.  
  
Neal ran a hand over his face, trying to shake off the last disquieting remnants of his dream. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep while Peter went to check on Elizabeth, but his exhaustion had been overpowering. “Sorry, I didn’t realise - I’ll get out of your way,” he said, beginning to get to his feet, but Peter reached out a hand.  
  
“No, you’re okay. You don’t need to go anywhere, Neal.”  Peter’s voice was soft, as gentle as Neal had ever heard it. “Here.”  Peter stepped forward, handing him an icepack. Neal looked at it dumbly; his bruises felt so deep and ingrained that it hardly seemed worth trying to remedy them now, but he took it anyway, letting the cold droplets of condensation slowly drip through his fingers.  
  
Peter sagged down into the armchair with a tired sigh and they fell silent, neither of them sure of the right thing to say. Neal counted the time, in seconds, then minutes, just as he had when Keller was lying on the ground, eyes wide and vacant. He could still feel the force from the kickback of the gun, a phantom pain reverberating along some unseen wound in his arm. The tremors caught him by surprise and he quickly reached across to drop the icepack on the coffee table, biting back a grimace as his shirt pulled against the lacerations on his back. He’d caught sight of them in the mirror at the hospital earlier, deep, angry lines of purple. They'd reminded him of prison bars.  
  
“Neal.”  
  
He looked at Peter in the blackening shadows.  
  
“You did the right thing.”  
  
“I still killed a man, Peter.”  
  
“You had no other choice.”  
  
“I killed him," he said again. It was an indescribable feeling, taking another person’s life, watching it seep away in front of you. Even if it was someone like Keller. Even if it was to save another. The thought splintered in his mind and a memory unfurled; he remembered sitting on the front porch when he was six or seven, listening to the stories his dad’s friends would tell him, about cops and robbers, life and death, right and wrong. “Sometimes, you do things for the greater good,” they’d say, “and sometimes you make mistakes.” They were always around, at first, to keep his mom company, to slip a ten-dollar bill into his hand so she couldn’t spend it on drink. Even then, Neal realised, the line between black and white was already disintegrating.  
  
“You’re in shock,” Peter was telling him. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it will get easier.” Neal nodded, trying to believe the platitude only because it was Peter saying the words. "There's always guilt - it's important that there is. It's what separates them from us."  
  
Peter has killed too, Neal knew. Though, the only time he had witnessed Peter take a life, it was for him, the clanging of a weather buoy in the distance and the scent of salt hanging in the air.  
  
But, still. It was different for him.  
  
"Keller saved my life once," he said, the words seeming too loud and coarse for the small room. Peter looked at him in surprise. "Matthew. He was Matthew then."  
  
Peter nodded, waiting patiently for him to continue, but Neal wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. It wasn't regret he was feeling exactly, but a strange, twisted version of grief, the realisation that he’d lost something along the way too.  Peter was still looking at him and even though the silence was becoming heavy and pronounced, he simply couldn't make the words form.  
  
“ _Neal_.”  
  
He closed his eyes, savouring the way the name sounded in Peter’s warm and steady voice; it always made it that much harder to imagine himself as anybody else.  
  
"Keller would've shot me without a second thought. Then you. He would've killed Elizabeth given half the chance,” Peter leaned forward so there was barely any distance between them. “Keller made the choice when he reached for the gun. He made the choice. Not you, _him_. Remember that."  
  
“I know.” Neal offered Peter an imitation of a smile, but it must have looked as perverse as it felt because Peter’s hand was suddenly on the nape of his neck, gently pulling his head to his chest. He was so close that the vibration of the words hit before the sound.

“You’re not a killer.”

Peter’s breath ghosted over his skin as he spoke and it’d been so long since Neal had been held, comforted, that he almost gave in, let himself sink into the hold. But he didn't, couldn't allow himself that one moment of weakness. He let out an aborted sob and fell silent, trembling in Peter's grip.   
  
After several moments, Peter released his hold and caught Neal's gaze. “You’ll be the death of me, but you’re no killer.”  
  
Huffing out a breath, Neal laughed humourlessly. “That’s probably not untrue,” he said, before forcing himself to stand, pulling his crumpled jacket straight. “I should go.”  
  
“You can stay.”  
  
He shook his head and gestured to the stairs. “I need some space to think things through and you have Elizabeth.”  
  
Peter studied him critically for a long moment, words of protest on his lips, but eventually he conceded with a nod. “Go straight home. See June, or Mozzie, okay?”  
  
Neal choked out a laugh. “I’m not gonna run, Peter.”  The idea seemed vaguely ludicrous now, even with the charges he’d face once he turned himself in. Peter gave him a look, one that Neal couldn’t quite read, but said nothing as they made their way into the hall.  
  
Slipping out into the sharp night air, Neal walked quickly down the darkened street, feeling the heavy weight of Peter’s gaze on him as he went.

 

  
  
  
_End._


End file.
